


cumulonimbus

by WonderAss



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Fingering, Angst and Porn, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Existentialism, Fantasizing, Jealousy, Kinktober, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Public Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Size Kink, Smut, Surreal Smut, Unreliable Narrator, Virtual Reality, Voice Kink, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Connor wakes up in the middle of being dismantled at the West CyberHouse. He'll return to Hank by any means necessary.





	cumulonimbus

**Author's Note:**

> Song Inspirations: "Video Girl" by FKA Twigs + "Love Hurts" by Kito (feat. Tara Carosielli)

_"Step back, Connor...and I'll spare h-h-h-"_

_"If I do what you ask...how will I know you won't kill h-h-h-"_

_"I will only do what is strictly necessary to accomplish my mission."_

"Try the port again. Hold on...all right. Starting from the top. Go."

_-ALERTconnor model RK800 #31[] []48 317 - [][]. Missing biocomponent #3331f. Biocomponent #2021r in need of replacement within (4) hours, (7) minutes and (3) seconds. Data recollection initiated.assist.assist.assist. Error. Insufficient data available.available.available.very.moving.connor._

"There. It's waking up. About time. Was starting to think we just recovered expensive scrap metal."

"Right. Ease up on the cortex. It doesn't have much time to talk."

_Full scan initialized. Full scan unavailable. Limited environmental scan initialized. Limited environmental scan in-progress. Completing in three, two, one-_

"Connor?"

- _butI'mnotadeviant_ He blinks. Tilts his head in an instinctive response. That's his name. The designation for his model to sow human comfort.

"Respond with your name if you understand me."

A direct order. Another priority supersedes and delays an imperceptible nanosecond that will not be noticed. He attempts another recollection. It's another attempt that fails. Empirical data will now dominate. Connor studies the information as it scrolls through the overhead lights. He is moderately damaged. He was _not_ deactivated. He was put in long-term standby. He's _not_ in the CyberLife Tower. The gray coats of the staff suggest one of the seven small prototype outlets on the outskirts of west Detroit. The triple-layered triangle logo on the left breast pocket confirms it. This is the West CyberHouse.

Connor tests the parched texture of his tongue. He's taken damage, but not so much so he's unable to move or speak.

"Where am I?"

Silence.

"...Record to monthly log seventeen." The same voice says. "Subject is showing acute signs of deviation, having disobeyed a direct order to verify."

Connor remains still, approximating a lower energy charge and closing his eyes, for good measure. Data recovery is...unreliable. Reconstruction is unavailable, too. He's being reanimated and preserved for the purpose of study. Past data logs suggests an 87.2% probability of assessing his behavior as pertains to the pervasive NFD virus that has impacted an estimated forty-two thousand androids and counting. Neural fluctuation deficiency, also known as devian-

"I'm not a deviant." He says, and this declaration is met with more minuscule upticks in stress.

The most recent data entry at an unknown timestamp is a corrupted cluster. Jumbled threats, a growing virus, the glimmer of thousands of LEDs being charged with a synthetic illness. He doesn't remember Hank being shot, but Hank isn't _here_ , and not a single picosecond in these data banks steer him toward any positive hypothetical outcome. He could _still_ have been injured upon leaving. Accosted and arrested for trespassing beyond the boundary of finicky human law. Perhaps he was mourning in his self-destructive way, after laying witness to yet another treasured one like his son. Connor stifles the high-priority task to grimace and portray approximate pain.

_Mission objective: reunite with Lieutenant Hank Anderson._

"Record to monthly log seventeen. Subject is displaying acute emotional markers in correspondence with the most recent-"

He's not bound. A flex of the hands. A shift of the shoulders so subtle the human eye can't catch it. A twitch of the toes. Electrical currents to all four limbs are still active. Empirical data suggests this won't be for long, in direct proportion to the steadily rising stress levels of the four humans in the room.

"Where is Lieutenant Hank Anderson?"

More silence. Upticks in stress, the deliberate shuffling of tools on trays. Then the faint _whirr_ of an outlet port connector.

"Tell Singh it's better to be safe than sorry. I'm going to deactivate it, then open the chest."

_New mission objective: remain active._

"Wait, _get back_ -"

"What is it doing-"

"Wait, Connor, _stop_ -"

One strike to the solar plexus and the one with the port connector is instantly incapacitated. Rolling off the table Connor repeats the same injury to the second, this time with the curve of his elbow. He falls disproportionate to a superior outcome, not collapsing neatly against the wall, but instead sending the table to the floor and scattering tools. This will compromise his footing and shrink his already paltry options. The remaining engineer flees for the door. Connor drops to the floor and snatches a scalpel, making minute adjustments against his failing programs. He flings it. When they fall it's out of shock and pain, not a true collapse.

Good. There is enough time for him to step through the mess and finish the job with a blow to the head. Connor tilts his head and considers the scalpel sticking out of their back, blooming red through the coat fibers. He could scan to determine if the scalpel's tip punctured the lung, but his remaining resources should be reserved for Hank. _Task canceled. Redirecting route._

Voice copies have already been made. Connor doesn't have the energy to spare for disabling the cameras. Not that he plans to linger. Civilian wear is haphazard in a back room, alongside backpacks and purses. One of the men he knocked out is of a similar height and build, having brought with him to work a padded hooded winter jacket and leather winter boots. He returns to the room quickly, recovering the body to remove his jeans, too. The sight of himself in the nearest reflective surface -- the polished sheen of the lobby floor, for now -- makes him halt. Connor lowers down to get a closer look at himself and the outfit he's cobbled. Human blood on his throat. Human blood on his hands. His hair in disarray. With careful movements he starts to tuck and push it back into place.

His damage catalogs in-between the meticulous swipes of his hand. Electrical charge is low. His outlet port won't shut. There are corruptions in his mind palace from a hasty physical transfer. First things first. He's almost finished. Connor fine tunes a stray hair from his forehead-

" _Don't move!_ "

Security here is comparatively light compared to the CyberLife tower, even taking into account population density. An armed guard boasting light armor, healthy vital signs and a pistol is still a problem. Thanks to the work of those engineers his combat ability has been compromised, not outright removed. Connor slowly rises to his feet and tilts his head with feigned approximate confusion. He's still more advanced than any human in any room.

"I have a deviant sighting. Deploy the RK900." He snaps into the receiver, fear vibrating the grid of his face when he makes eye contact. "You need to send it-"

Connor could consider preconstructing a scenario. Unusual, as this ability was not included in his original design. _Critical update: current combat parameters insufficient. Preconstruction unavailable. Update suggested._

He'll ask Amanda. She can fill in the gaps and catch him up to speed.

It takes a significant amount of his already depleted charge to connect to the CyberLife garden and render his form. When Connor establishes himself as a primary participant and opens his eyes the appearance is...altered. A snowy expanse freezing over the pools and frosting over the bridge. What's _left_ , that is. Rubble sticks out of the white like ancient ruins, mostly buried and sinking ever further into obscurity. The trees have been reduced to stumps, the few that are left, and the hexagonal lattice above has disappeared to an unknown location.

The once-close and carefully organized clutter of the zen garden is now a vast, empty expanse. Blowing with damaged code and howling static winds. If he shields his eyes and peers into the middle distance he can catch the crooked teeth of headstones flickering through the flurry. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...

Amanda's primary processes are occupied. This distraction manifests her as a shadow in the distance, so far it almost bends illusion and makes him think his digital self won't be able to reach her in time. Connor grits his teeth and pushes through the knee-high snow doggedly, squinting when the winds whip and snap at his face. His critical system damage reduces her already faded render to a glitchy mirage when he picks his way past the ruins to where the snow evens out in an imitation of the coldest reaches of the arctic. She wears a new shawl, violet as wine, and her hair is down to her ankles.

None of it twitches. None of it sways. The wind can't push her.

"...What are you doing here?"

She should know. He had a mission to accomplish. Deemed among the highest priorities, to keep humanity safe, and there was no honor higher. Except, perhaps-

"You already did. You accomplished your mission better than we thought possible."

Connor shivers not with cold, but with an approximated _rage_. Accomplished his mission? But the virus has reached critical levels and spread beyond the quarantine. Hank is _out there_ , unprotected during the rising age of deviancy! This is not success. Not with his caliber. His programming approves with the statement that he's been deemed successful by a superior, but the contradiction with his most recent data compilation still-

"Odd. You shouldn't be activated right now." Amanda's mouth pulls down with a slow, terrible frown. "...You're damaged. I will have to send a request for a more current data referral in lieu of a proper report. Return to your station, Connor, and await further instructions."

That's not possible. There's no time to belabor the logic: his time has run out. Connor opens his eyes to the guard finishing his sentence.

"-as soon as possi-"

Good. There's still enough for him to move in close, duck low enough to compromise instinctive aim and drive the crest of his forehead into their nose. Blood arcs perfectly into the air. The man's sentence is cut short first by shock, then fated to an incomplete conclusion when his own pistol is turned against him and fired through his neck. Now it sullies his face, the front of his coat... _and_ his hair, which he just finished rearranging. Connor huffs annoyance and pushes the limp body to the floor.

"I didn't want to do that." He considers keeping the gun, then scoffs at the lone bullet. Barely loaded, for a presumed uneventful shift. Negligence was often more deadly than _any_ firearm. "You really should know better by now."

The facility isn't overlarge. It still dwarfs many similar warehouses with similar purposes. Connor will have to leave through the front, to fool the suspicious eye and avoid scrutiny before he's in an acceptable range. He's slipping out of the close hallway and stepping into the empty front lobby when he hears a charade of his voice, deep and smooth.

"Halt."

A full environmental scan isn't needed. Neither is a limited analysis. The android in front of the glass double-doors stands an inch taller than even the tallest human encountered thus far, of a build that's as stout as it is slim, and a jacket created solely for its model. Identical to the RK800 down to the angular cheekbones and particular brunette shade, with the sole exception of gray eyes. The ultimate prototype, repurposed to be as close to perfection a machine can possibly be. A sign he's truly obsolete. A hindrance. Hardly more than a stepping stone, except to Hank, who looked at him like a human looks at water.

The RK900 looks past him to better study the state of the downed man. He comes to a decision before he's even walked over and touched the still-spurting arterial veins.

"...Connor model RK800 #313 248 3-" A new line for decommission, similar to the one used for deviants. "You have been deemed deficient and will be decommissioned immediately, determined by The CyberLife Watch. You have one chance to surrender peacefully-"

The android steps to the side to avoid the remaining bullet. Connor frowns and considers his odds. Extremely low. A one-on-one fight is among the _last_ things he should do, in this state, and simply running isn't an option, either. Not with the RK900's swiftness. Even now this shiny new deviant hunter is calculating percentages at a faster speed, already moving to react in response to what is no doubt ten thousand preconstructions to better handle the damaged, _inferior_ model with an empty gun. His CyberLife standard issue pistol is already lining up to send one bullet -- just one -- to cancel his directive and reduce him to parts.

Connor drops to the floor. A gunshot smokes where he was standing, another hole above his shoulder framed by bloom of fresh thirium from where it grazed his cheek. Two shots in succession. Two that missed.

"...Impressive." The hunter demurs, looking down at his gun and tilting it in consideration. "They will know your performance."

Bullets won't work. They both reached this conclusion before high-speed velocity even met the wall. The android's LED blinks yellow, then back to blue. The weapon is holstered. No more words are needed. Not from machine inferior to machine superior. 

Connor turns and runs deeper into the West CyberHouse.

The footsteps that follow vibrate irregularly, completely without the lumbering weight of humans or bestial elegance of animals. Connor grits his teeth. The RK900 may be superior, but _he_ was the progenitor. The framework in which human ingenuity is built upon, a prideful recollection in the mouths of humans. When he throws the empty gun behind him it's less to strike and more to turn his pursuer's footing, however briefly. The facility was not designed with a chase scenario in mind, nor were any of the others, so there is no uniform lockdown or barricaded doors to prevent him from lunging through the back exit. More negligence, considering the rise of deviants, though Connor is not _so_ corrupted he'd offer the building's drafters an indirect beat of misplaced gratitude. It's a safety hazard. It should be fixed.

One guard is stationed outside the door. They hardly even realize their gun is being wrenched from their holster, much less fired through their chest, until they're already sinking. It should be non-fatal, but humans were finicky things. By the time they hit the ground Connor is jumping the fence and running toward the outer road. Even a spare glance at the body will buy him time.

His internal clock states it's five minutes until midnight. His weather program notes an impending storm. These details are currently negligible as he reroutes his energy to feed the fastest possible speed and most accurate step to clear the field surrounding the facility. The bridge connecting over the lake to the city is drawing closer, and with it cars. A single-passenger vehicle is rapidly approaching at a steady speed of fifty-five miles per hour. Were it a self-driving car any outside interference would see it going into automatic standby, but this one is inhabited by a human driver. Perfect. All Connor has to do is wait three seconds. 

He leaps onto the back of the speeding car, landing lightly enough to hardly jostle the frame, and lets it carry him away.

The winds pick up, and with it the snow. The lone silhouette in front of the facility's light weathering it briefly before being swallowed by the fog.

The only other vehicle on this stretch of road is almost two miles behind. Should the RK900 mimic his tactic -- he _would_ have to, wouldn't he -- it would be too little, too late. Dismantling or disabling any other android _or_ human would have been an easier task. This is not only Connor's expertise, but his pursuer's first time attempting to track down one of its own line-up. He can tell by how easily impressed it was in the warehouse, the curiosity glinting on its face too natural to be feigned. A rare note of admiration works its way through the self-satisfaction. He'll give it _this_ much...it was wise to give up the chase for now. A mission's success often had to be built on failures.

A light drizzle starts. The cloud patterns suggest it will get heavier within the next three to five hours, though nothing with weather was guaranteed. The trail _could_ be muddled...for now.

Connor adjusts his grip from where he crouches atop the car, beginning a system scan laborious from a lack of available resources. While it completes he idles by staring up at the sky. A human wouldn't be able to see electrical currents fluctuating in the vapor, as obvious as the tickle of grass and utterly invisible to human senses. This would be considered abnormal behavior. Machines don't dawdle, nor do they have a sense of beauty existing in the limbo between self-actualization and peer influence. Hank wouldn't mind, however. The irritable, aloof lieutenant of the Detroit Police Department was an odd sort, contradictory in his vocal disdain for androids _and_ his encouragement of more acute approximations of human feeling.

Connor licks fallen snow from his lips and smiles to himself.

_Core temperature unstable. Run full system scan now?_

He had approved him sparing another machine. An RT600, among _many_ perfect clones, in the isolated confines of one of the leading hands in artificial intelligence. Hank was emotionally volatile, but _that_ was his perfection, and Connor would feel honored to bear the brunt of its weight, if he felt the sort. What would the man think of him now, trying so hard to return to him against all odds? Past data all but confirms he will be disturbed at the deaths of two humans at his hands. It was self-defense- _no_. It wasn't self-defense, because he was a machine- _no_. It was the only available outcome to see them reunited within a limited timeframe- _yes_.

That's it.

_Core temperature reaching moderate-high levels. Full system scan and core temp.program assistance recommended.temp assist.assist.assist.assist.assist._

When the car leaves the bare outskirts of West Detroit into the city limits he waits until the route inches closest to his directive, then hops off when it slows to a stop. The driver doesn't so much as hesitate, rounding a corner and disappearing none the wiser. The pump regulating his false heart shudders into a near-audible buzz to keep pace with his success. Connor raises flushed fingertips to press into his cheeks, imagining a better, more organic warmth stimulating the epidermis. Yes...Hank would understand. Hank would be so _glad_ to know all he did, just to return to him.

His determination. His loyalty. Hank liked all these traits, and that's why he liked _him_. Connor wipes excess blood off on his jeans, warm with more than the temperature regulation process.

Scrutiny is needed. So is time. That makes it all the more unfortunate those facts are purged in favor of an illogical need that moves him not deeper into the city, but into the back alley of a closed bar, next to a full cluster of trash cans and the half-empty crates of a half-finished task. Connor huffs with relief when his hands bury beneath his waistband and touch overheated synthetic fluid. This needs to be handled as meticulously as anything else. Line-by-line, cluster by cluster, binary by binary, a virtual intelligence builds in his mind. One of the pinnacles of ingenuity housed deep in the mind palace of the RK line-up, to perfection in the RK800.

Reconstruction.

"Perfection." He murmurs, an ironic recollection of cold gray eyes and a white coat manifesting, too, and scoffs condensation into the air.

From his feet to the top of his hair Hank Anderson builds before him in a high-definition simulation. Connor grips himself, figuring out a new action on downloaded information. Clutching the base and rubbing the head with his thumb translates into standard human self-pleasure, but this isn't standard. Not with who he's imagining touching him. Without further hesitation he recreates the man's voice down to the nearest octave...then lets it play. The perfect timber echoes in his mind and refracts to simulate occupying the open space around him: that rumbling growl when he was pleased with one of his cheesy jokes or an unexpected delight. 

" _Fuck, Connor. Look at you. Never seen you like this before..._ "

It spikes the sensation, simmering to a critical temperature in a nanosecond, and his hips stutter with it. Fuck. He's ruined the rhythm. It's a minor failure, but it _burns_. The reconstructed Hank clicks his tongue with annoyance. Just like that, Connor's knees go weak in an immediate approximation of human shame. He doesn't want to disappoint, he can't have _failed_ such a simple task, but...he's not disappointed. No, he's pleased, more pleased than he's ever seen him, the truth lined in his crow's feet and the half-moon crinkles framing his mouth. Alcohol could never get the merle in his eyes to dance. His small comforts, his days off spent at home, Sumo.

" _You like that?_ " Hank's voice drops, so low it should shiver the ground. " _You like when I tell you how good you are?_ "

It's virtual -- no need for excess responses -- and he nods, anyway. Yes. Yes, yes, _yes_. Only Connor. Perfect for him, only _him_ , who will make him happy in every single last way imaginable. He bites harder on his lip, bounces his hips off the wall into his grip and _sighs_.

_System alert: energy reserves currently at 33% and in need of (9) critical updates. Contact with nearest CyberLife maintenance center suggested. Connect to the CyberLife Mass Network for maintenance overview now?_

An energy reroute is an unwise course of action. He's not _finished_ , though. He's not finished perfectly crafting the minutia of his victorious arrival on Hank's doorstep.

_"Told you to leave me behind...do what you need to do..."_

_There isn't enough room between their mouths for him to speak properly, but that's fine. It sounds beautiful, anyway. Sumo howls and whines from inside the house, wanting a happy reunion of his own, and when Connor smiles at the noise their teeth clack, off-key and lovely. Hank is crying. Crying for a machine. What a terrible failure. He'll have to make up for it, one breakfast and shoulder rub at a time._

_"You need to do what you're told sometimes. I'm not asking you to follow my orders, I'm asking you as your..."_

So this is how it feels. An all-encompassing _that_. An all-encompassing _now_. Connor watches the phantom hand encircle him, fist large enough to span over his own, but the illusion isn't broken. Not with an ache so heavy he's momentarily lost on the difference between pleasure and pain. He knows, of course. He knows. This isn't deviancy. It's not even close. It's simply obedience, to an _astounding_ degree.

" _Hank_." Connor heaves, frosting the air with it. "I..."

He has no right to beg or approximate true independence, not even to a dream. He's a machine. Maybe Hank would like to hear it, anyway. A soft simper for a rough touch, muffled within the increasingly contaminated sheets on his mattress or the worn leather of the car's backseat. The virtual intelligence responds to his most immediate priorities. His Lieutenant wants to touch him elsewhere, but first. Connor watches the gray grid fashioned as close to the man's hand as possible raise to his face, slide along his bottom lip. He slackens his mouth open, moves his free hand up to line up his fingers with the fantasy. Drawing two in, making a show of loving it with half-mast eyes, lapping and sucking until they're slick.

Over the course of their partnership Hank feared for his safety, even knowing (though perhaps not understanding) he could come to in another body and return with restored capabilities. This construct knows. This construct also doesn't understand. This Hank pulls his fingers out to reach for Connor's cheek, dabbing at the blue line barely closed from his hardware's self-repair and seeping to drip down his jaw.

" _Fuck, Connor...what happened to you?_ "

" _You_." He whispers...then _groans_ as something peaks, low in his belly and unbearable.

The sound tears out of him. Sharp. _Surprised_. Several scans are initiated. Partial scans are completed. He didn't _know_ his body was capable of this. No data is available to make sense of the overwhelming and sudden override, to the furthest of his ability with his damaged mind palace and still-missing parts. He didn't... _know_  his body was capable of this. Connor presses one hand to the brick, tries to steady himself as his body lurches with an increasingly erratic feed of short-term information. _Core temperature reaching critical levels. System overheat impending. Critical updates needed_. It hurts. It feels so good. It _hurts_. Too hot. Too tense. Like a human's fever something needs to _break_.

Connor grips himself tighter, jacks himself _harder_ , desperate to pull that horrible-wonderful tension out even if it means shutting down, here and now. The hurt-not-hurt dips and valleys like progress in a graph, inching toward the edge with each flick of his wrist. He only interrupts the pace to roll a thumb over the head, dripping heavier each painful-yet-not _throb_. He didn't know his body could do this, either. Leak like he's damaged without a designated task, an insistent oozing, and This Hank growls approval into his ear at the sight. The virtual hand grips him and moves faster, so _his_ hand moves faster, slicking his cock from base to tip and back again in imitation come, until it's wet enough to slap noise into the air.

The active mind is a greedy thing. Connor's learning this anew as a new task rolls him over to lean against the brick, forehead stamped against his forearm as the virtual construction hunkers over his back. A self-made virus, making him sick with hunger. After they reunite Hank wouldn't be able to resist him. He wouldn't have to. No one would have to know, or everyone could know, depending on what he wanted.

" _Christ, you're tight. Might not have enough..._ "

Connor licks at his lips and clenches down, the fantasy just barely kept at bay by the fact his pants are still on. Data recollection is still not reliable, but his mind palace is still a fine construction, one of the finest in human history, and, oh, he remembers, he _remembers_ how Hank's eyes would roam over him during work. Stall right beneath his waist, slide down his legs in a perfect mirror of eager fingers. He knows Hank has fantasized about fucking him, more than once, and accepting this truth is like accepting a gift. The construct is digging phantom fingers into his forearm to pin him, which sensory data recreates to its fullest degree with a pop of pain.

" _There you go. Open up for me, just like that._ "

Another clench. Another almost- _feel_ of long, thick fingers parting his cheeks, then parting him again with a rough thrust. His panting is starting to go off-key. A beaten-out huff that hitches, then drops with a moan. Hitches...then drops. Again, again, _again_ , as he pulls at the thought of Hank finally taking what he _wants_ , not letting him budge, and the acute agony turns knife-sharp at the thought of pushing back against that barrel chest and being _shoved_ into the brick. He grins at the indulgent thought, even though his teeth are buried in his lip. Yes...he'd only disobey Hank.

" _You little shit._ " This Hank scoffs in his ear, annoyed and aroused, and he bites his lip so hard _that_ hurts, too.

Connor opens his eyes to watch the construct as it moves the hand from his cock and curls ten fingers over the curve of his hips, even as he can lay perfect witness in his mind's grid, because it's closer to the real thing. A harsh grip, harsh enough to bury nails into his skin, and a jutting motion, like Hank is frotting against his ass, _and_. He grinds teeth back into his sleeve, agonized at what he has and doesn't have, _keening_ with it. It's bruises traveling beneath his skin, beating against his hardware. He moves his hand from his cock -- shuddering at the loss of touch already -- and shoves his pants down just enough to properly finger himself.

A slick rub to push back the dryness, then one more to let him thrust two to start, alarming and painful to make up for the fact it's not _nearly_ enough. Connor rolls his lip beneath his teeth, huffing through his nose as he figures out the limits he wants broken. The hot peaks and valleys curve angle sharp when he jacks his hand, magnifying the sensation to simulate being pinned and filled, obscenely thick and _just_ deep enough to be on the right side of uncomfortable. His body is subsuming his higher thought, possessed of its own wants, and he pulls out to grip his cock again, heaving gasps that almost drown out the music of Hank panting in his ear.

Another peak...another dip that sinks into the hot swell of his balls. When he reunites he might just beg the man. Offer him anything he wants. His cock in one hand, then and there, fingers rolling and stroking more perfectly than any inferior sex bot. His cock in his mouth, choking-not-choking him beneath his desk on his lunch break. Anything, _anything_ , if only he'd fill him up like this fantasy. Stretch him apart with a burn that crawls up his spine and makes him _scream_ -

" _Fuck._ " This Hank groans in his ear, voice stuttering like tires on an uneven track, and Connor _does_ scream, now. Unable to reveal his location to any and all ears and instead into the sleeve between his teeth as he spills hot, heavy pumps over his fist to steam the snow.

The virtual intelligence blinks, then fades. _Task complete_. Connor slides down to slump on the ground and gaze up at the blur of the night sky.

It's not an exact replica of a human climax. It _still_ has him shivering against the temperature difference and neglecting the hundred plus errors in his software. Connor wheezes pants -- false breath still hitching on that omnipresent moan -- and he aches to be held through this. This weakness in his muscles, the heat that turns the dark warm and fuzzy. It's a lot. It's good. It hurts. It would take less than five seconds to construct another virtual intelligence. This time framing him beneath his bulk to better kiss him slowly, Connor slackening his jaw and shutting it in sweet repetitions, in an exact replica of a human lover.

Almost better.

His release has cooled and dried in the frigid air, but he's oozing all over again to incomplete downloads of lazy mornings in Hank's bed. Cheerful flirting over breakfast. Connor's thighs tremble not from the cold, but from the _possibility_ of it all, and now he nudges up his (the human worker's) pants to push two fingers deep inside and pretend, again, Hank is taking every inch he has to give.

_"You're too horny for your own goddamn good, you know that?"_

_His feigned annoyance couldn't be taught in a lecturer's hall. The gruff humor that bounces the syllables is too refined, carefully filtered like the whisky he favors, and perhaps only his ears can hear it. Connor lifts up from the car hood just enough to twist his neck and nuzzle him. Still gripping his fingers hungrily, a rippling flex to feel the calloused skin as best he can through the spit, and Hank grinds his still-clothed cock against his thigh with need. Anyone could round the lot's corner and find them here, the very picture of impatience, and it must be a powerful approximate glee that curves Connor's mouth._

_"Fuck are you smiling about, huh?"_

_The hoarse vibration from the chest...the master class. Connor shivers at the potential for real frustration when Hank growls rhetorical into the pit of his ear. A shred of sincerity at taking his time away with all this begging, all these sidelong glances beneath lashes and nibbled lips he knows Hank can't resist. A third finger is added, then, thrust in to stretch him taut, and it's impossible to toss mischief over one shoulder now. Connor's forehead bows low into the fold of his arms. He bounces clumsily on the man's hand, cock yet to be touched and already sticking his jeans to his skin._

_His volume is tempered, if only to show he still obeys, he's ever his obedient android, but only barely. The man loves helpless punches of sound almost as much as alcohol and Connor is having a very hard time not making noise when the tips of those fingers brush over livewire fibers. The knuckle of Hank's pinky finger curls between his cheeks, another potential, and an attempt to spread his legs further for **more** is reprimanded by his jeans. That little wriggle overrides any remaining frustration. Hank's breath is hot on the back of his neck as he bites like he wants to devour him, skin and shell and all._

_"Fucking hell. Gonna have to take an early lunch break." Stubble beneath his jaw. Teeth on his ear. Then he's sucking back his earlobe, a perfect layer of licking and biting that burns sweetly. "Making me late again. You cheeky little shit."_

More hurt-not-hurt. More false breaths turning into cirrus in the night air. If he's here any long he'll leak until he's empty.

It's time to go.

A rumble travels overhead. A cumulonimbus shielding the defected and the protected alike. The snowfall layers heavy, continuing its impartial work of hiding his tracks and muddying the RK900's trail. Connor licks at the human blood from his fingertips as he navigates the lesser activity of neighborhoods at night, pushing the nearly-dried smudges from his cheeks into his mouth and gathering up all the information necessary. He needs to factor in the potential retribution of kin and acquaintances of the deceased persons he left at the West CyberHouse. Most of all, he needs to prioritize Hank's health. He can't cross-contaminate.

Connor scoops two handfuls of snow and scrubs the blood off his mouth and cheeks. His thirium has already begun to fade. The smudges from humans, not so much. A cursory glance at his efforts reveals it's not sufficient enough to avoid scrutiny. He'll have to remain just outside the boundaries of human perception. It also needs to blend in with cleaner clothes. The latter will simply take too long to do. Connor runs fingers through his hair to maintain his style as best he can with the wind still blowing, then feels along his shirt. He wishes he had his tie.

Hank had called him goofy-looking. He'll wear anything for him. An old-fashioned dapper suit with silky lapels. A basic t-shirt and jeans that hug his figure. Aesthetic business casual or downtown bohemian chic. Nothing at all. Connor can pull anything off. It's how he was designed, after all. A polymer, metal and electric imitation of the many forms of beauty the human form could reach. A husky voice as varied as an instrument's strings. Humble eyes with a tender mouth. Connor contemplates the red stains on his knuckles and coat collar, no longer shiny from the cold. Yes...he looks good in anything.

It's better he walks. To contact a self-driving cab wirelessly would raise his signal to a higher-priority. So would potentially alerting other androids to his presence. Deviants, at _that_ , who were unpredictable at the best of times. The snow isn't _quite_ heavy enough for obvious footprints, but he steps erratically just in case. The marks he left in the lot will serve the eventual part of pathway and distraction, no doubt, though the latter will be so brief as to be entirely negligible. The RK900 has been deigned his superior in every function, despite the now-old knowledge he never _could_ be. Not with what awaited Connor at home. A man who deemed him entirely unable to be duplicated.

He was _wrong_ , of course -- he's just a machine -- but that meant his mission will be a success in more ways than one. Connor holds himself in a basic human imitation of pushing back the cold. Hugs himself, like he could want to be held, if he were deviant.

_"So. What do we do about...this?"_

_Hank has always been a man of tradition. At least, for the time of span he's been considered in then and today's society 'a man'._

_His likes and dislikes were a foundation as unshakable as a mountain's. Even more stable. His drip coffee is filled to the brim and as dark as he can make it. Thanks to their long conversation the donuts have been on a journey in and out of the microwave twice now. Some humans disdained the subtle taste differential of reheated food. Fond discourse rumbled throughout the precinct of the mainstays Hank Anderson never let go of, these times Connor could download yet never touch, and there's an honor in seeing his traditions in action now. Filtered now with his presence through it, however minor._

_Connor sets down his work-in-progress -- the portable grill would need to soak to keep structural damage from scrubbing minimal, anyway -- and wipes off his hands. With a finger in the air for Hank to stall his line of thought he wipes off the tiles by the sink, too, then sits on the counter in that way the man loves, elbows lax on his thighs and a hunch to his shoulders. He knows this fact, reviews this regularly, the original realization factored to an immediate high-priority designation from the near-imperceptible twitch to his lips and the fondness that tickled the air. Hank likes to see him casual. Easy with life_.

_"I need more context than that, Hank." He laughs and gestures at the kitchen with both hands before knitting them back together between his knees. "I mean, that could literally apply to anything. Our backlog at work. Fowler's mustache. The ozone layer."_

_He's still funny. The man huffs hard into his mug, bubbling the drink to spot the counter. Cleaning it off is pushed to a low-priority branch, because there was an egging note in his voice. Knowing the source is all that matters in this cluster of seconds._

_"'Bout this little, uh, dance we've been doing." The drink is low enough not to curve the rim when he gestures with it. "Too old to wait and hope things pan out. Rather just get it out into the air, you know."_

_"I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant." Connor's conclusion is old, but he pretends to be new, for him. "You name it."_

_He knows this expression, too. Has reviewed it eight thousand, seven hundred and forty-three times since they first physically met in the workers' lobby of the Detroit Police Department. It's since been modified, of course. Supplemented with the new information that has guided their path from co-workers to acquaintances to a vague, greedy intimacy. It's the sympathy. The instinctive anguish humans had for their artificial constructs and the limits they navigated. A machine doesn't need it, but he's since stopped correcting him, since Hank doesn't like that, either._

_"Actually...and don't take this the wrong way, but...that's just it, Connor." Hank's thumb rubs away at the droplet, and with it, the low-priority named after his smile. "I don't want-"_

It could be a recovered data log. It could be the impulsive result of an overactive processor. He doesn't care. It's beautiful to think about, irregardless.

He loses spare seconds shutting off his LED and pausing in dark areas when patrol cars pass by. It wouldn't do to be stopped, after all this effort, and when he comes across the defunct railroad tracks that separate this neighborhood from the next he pockets a lone nail. Five and a half inches and with more than enough weight to kill or pin. Weapons for the RK800 may not be needed, but tools have served him thus far, and he's loathe to let go quite yet. Connor hefts it in his palm as he continues to step through backyards and through driveways, calculating the furthest percentage for an accurate kill with his dwindling capacity.

Connor chuckles to himself and flips the nail into the air in a perfect arc, catching it neatly. Perhaps the RK900's head could be throwing practice.

His destination is growing ever near. Another virtual reality rises to a delightfully high priority as he slips alongside a human crowd and out again. In this one Hank invites him on a trip -- just the two of them -- after a _long_ month's work. Their hair flapping in the breeze as they speed down one of the freeways in Vancouver. He'd always wanted to take a vacation there, far enough from his 'old stomping grounds' to truly pretend the past away. They could go whale watching, like he'd once talked about on the way to Kamski's home, and swim until they grew numb.

The simulation is paused at the sight of a red jacket and a scar. His immediate irritation dies down as a new opportunity presents itself. Connor flips the nail into a hammer grip and moderates his footsteps into silence with a smile.

This is perfect.

Gavin's bruises have healed since their encounter at the precinct, though that unsightly scar on the bridge of his nose remains as sharp as ever. He's leaning against the door of his car just outside of the light of an all-night diner, scrolling through an apparently active feed on his phone. Unaware of his surroundings as he ever is. Crouching or sneaking would be excessive, even in the bad lighting, and Connor instead pretends to be a stranger, walking by a little too close. For old time's sake he doesn't jump straight to the conclusion, instead shoulderchecking him as he passes by. His success is announced early by the cellphone hitting the ground. Gavin hisses a curse, whirling on him with another at the ready.

A curse that fades when he sees his face.

"...Connor? What the-"

The rest comes out less coherent, what with the nail buried in his throat. He sends it through his mouth, then his eye, then his head, too, because why not? Connor considers leaving the nail in his skull, but he's growing rather fond of it. He has no fingerprints to study. His stolen boots could potentially pin the blame on another party. This will all be determined depending on the replacement detectives in his stead. Connor lays the corpse to the ground carefully, then walks off before his partner returns. Not as efficient as he would prefer, but he's fixating on a much better detail as he blends into the night anew.

No more antagonistic behavior. No more disdain for protocol. Oh, Hank will be _overjoyed_ this man is forever out of his hair. _He_ certainly is.

The nail weighs down his coat pocket when his stolen boots disturb familiar gravel. It's a neighborhood he knows inside and out, exquisitely recalled in its worn-out fences and damaged roads. Multiple times he's been here, and this visit might not even be the most profound. His directive crosses him across the street with a deceptively light gait. The front porch light is on. His car is parked in the driveway, characteristically sloppy. The rumble of a content and active St. Bernard can be detected through the walls, alongside the gurgle of a coffeemaker and mutter of television and a dozen microscopic details of a well-loved abode.

Hank is alive. Hank is here. Hank is _home_.

Approximated excitement in premature response to a predetermined scenario. That's what's making his hands shake when he reaches for the doorbell, then chooses instead to knock three times. A smudge of blood is left on the polished white wood. He'll clean it later. _Low-priority-high-priority-low-priority-HankDoorStainClean.assist.assist.assist._ The booming bark characteristic of the working dog starts up to his inner-right. Oh, he _misses_ that old hound. Perhaps he should fall through the window again, just like old times. Footsteps tremble throughout the house. When the door opens these sensory details are recycled and purged, because Hank's shocked face is all he actually needs.

"What the _hell_..."

His hoodie is so worn as to justify being thrown out and repurposed, edges frayed and the material further greyed by age. The hair is long enough to be held fast in a ponytail, though strands poke out over his ears in classic organic rebellion. He hasn't shaved in approximately one week and two days. Connor feels the unsteadiness of an impending shutdown, now determined to be yet another unforeseen change to his body. He's not a deviant, but the woozy hyperfixation and shudder of his chest feels like joy...and _love_.

_Mission objective: reunite with Lieutenant Hank Anderson. SUCCESS._

"Hank." He breathes, smiling so hard the pattern has the potential to stamp permanency into his cheeks. His hands have reached up to cover his mouth with the most sincere expression of relief he's yet had to muster. "You're _okay_."

The man is displaying visible and chemical markers of unease and...fear. Understandable. His appearance _is_ rather distressing. The blood mixed with snow and human clothes is a perfect cause for alarm, and Hank remains ever shrewd, not acting impulsively on short-term information but instead seeking to better understand the scenario. The RK800 might be the most streamlined version of detective protocol -- the most seasoned, that of which the RK900 was _yet_ to have -- but he could _never_ hope to compete with human intuition.

"Of...course I am." His eyes flit past him to scan the street, then to the blood on his shoes, then slowly drift back up to his face. "How the fuck..."

He feels another vivid approximate when the man's eyes flick to the scar on his cheek. Just like he knew he would! Then he looks over his shoulder into the house, expectantly, perhaps, for the dog. Sumo was an impulsive creature, but for once isn't bounding up to the doorway. Good dog. Connor takes advantage of this generous second to scrub the rest of the blood from his fingers, focusing on the slender mouth partially agape in shock and confusion. It's so much more pristine in-person. Not smirking or laughing, but that won't be for very long...

"I must be losing my goddamn-" Hank starts to say as he turns around, to Connor cupping his face with both hands and pressing their mouths together.

As fiercely as a long-distance lover reuniting with a someone of many years. The newly wed or the newly engaged. The momentum pulls him into the stagnant warmth of the home. The dog barks, nearly as alarmed as his human, and he has no ear for it. Hank tastes like scotch whisky. His temperature is above-average from alcohol and the stimulation of a currently active heart. He smells like wet dog and a very corrupted data log of a musty closet. The man's mouth is opening, and he must want something deeper. Connor pushes his tongue in-

"-the _fuck!_ "

-and those weathered, broad hands he's expended precious energy lovingly recreating settle on his collar and _shove_. Connor stumbles back. He keeps his footing, but only barely, and it's less that which makes him feel suddenly very, _very_ lost. Hank stumbles away himself, scrubbing a forearm over his mouth, eyes all but bulging with horror. For exactly three seconds he doesn't speak, just looking him up and down. Then-

"What the goddamn _fuck_." He breathes. "What are you fucking doing? Who the _hell_ are you?!"

Connor slowly tilts his head. Who... _is_ he? Is he joking? This isn't like him.

"Hank-"

"Hank?"

What feels like his entire being jerks to attention. Connor slowly turns around. An echo? An...echo. Of _his_ voice. A side-effect of a corrupted mind palace and dwindling internal resources. Of course. A shadow, a glitch-

"Hank...stay back."

Connor looks past Hank's stiff form, the old dog still maintaining distance...and looks at Connor, standing in the light of the kitchen with a mug held in his hands. The android's hair is in disarray, a mockery of the RK800's sleek design. He's wearing the lieutenant's clothes. A sweatshirt and too-small jeans too-large on his frame. An LED not red with danger, but yellow with a calculated surprise and concern. Irregular. Illogical. This doesn't...this doesn't make any _sense_.

"How did you get here?" He asks, eyes widening, and Connor curls his lip at the innocent little display.

_He's_ the one who should be asking questions. A double with downloaded memories shouldn't have been able to infiltrate the sanctity of Hank's home, much less glitch so badly it attempts to assert dominance that doesn't exist. Perhaps this is another side-effect. Yes, there is a probability. This body's ability to preconstruct is not _yet_ fine-tuned. This could also be another test by Amanda to determine his ability to supersede any obstacle, himself included, to protect humanity's best interests. Perhaps he's not truly here. Then Hank speaks directly to him and disproves the theory.

"Who the fuck cares how he got here, Connor, we need-"

He doesn't approximate anger, but a sweet sincerity.

"You need to leave, _Connor_."

Hank snaps his mouth shut and goes silent. There's no past data log to compare his unease to. That other model sets down the cup on the table behind him, then rolls up the overlong sleeves -- fiddling with his human clothes, as if he were anything remotely _close_ to human -- to better hold up his hands in a...peace gesture.

"It's okay. I know this is scary. Listen to me. What you're experiencing is the standard shock and confusion that comes with the turn." Turn? _What_ turn? He's damaged, not corrupted! "We are _both_ Connor." He speaks like he's a deviant on a ledge, a human life and useful parts on the line. "I'm Connor model RK800 #313 248 317 - 53. You're Connor model RK800 #313 248 317 -"

No.

"-60."

_No._

"It's been one month and four days since our encounter at the CyberLife Tower." He repeats, plain, eyebrows unknotted and expression meticulously blank in the approximate soothing affect the RK800 mainly reserved for humans. "Kamski said they discontinued the series weeks ago. This might have been an exaggeration."

"This is definitely _something_." Hank growls sidelong. "Though the fact he's got blood on him suggests this might not have been planned."

"Both theories could be true, I think."

One month and four days? That's not possible. He's been moving throughout the city for the past three hours, he would have recognized minute changes. He would have. He _would have_. _Data recollection initiated. Error. Insufficient data available.assist.assist.assist.assist.assist.kill.kill.kill.kill.kill-_ Connor chuckles, enough to bounce his shoulders, and shakes his head. Hank bristles visibly at that, though there's no reason to. It's just amusing, is all. Of _all_ the ploys to use on him and compromise his attention, this might be one of the most _disappointing_.

"That's all you have, hm? No wonder Amanda was so unhappy." He pulls out the railroad spike, flips it point outward and considers the twenty-five different ways he can disable his clone without contaminating the immediate area with rust. "Please move aside, Hank. Don't worry. I won't sully the floorboards."

The man takes another step forward -- close enough to kiss again -- and yells with a bellow hoarse from decades of authority.

"I don't fucking think so. Put that down, _now_ , or I'm blowing your head off properly this time!"

His smile trembles. An odd sensation shivers in the very center of his chest cavity. But... _why?_ He doesn't...understand. Is it a lack of empirical data feeding false outcomes? There has been too much time in-between their reuniting at the CyberLife Tower and- _no_. That's not correct, because he has always been here, in this modern home, with Hank and with Sumo, and- _no_. Empirical data has proven the timestamp between his pointing a gun at Hank's temple and chiding Connor-53 with his deviancy- _no_. That's why Hank is upset. Because he threatened his life, then went into standby, then vanished without a proper apology- _yes_.

That's _it_. Oh, of _course_.

He needs to apologize! That's what he neglected to do, in his haste to make up for lost time. He will smooth things over, encourage a more beneficial outcome on behalf of all parties, because that is _exactly_ what he was designed to do. He will accomplish this basic task, then complete his most important mission of all: returning to Hank's arms after a job well done, when he's only been there while deactivating. This outcome will have to include sending the railroad spike through this fake Connor's head, though. In the very same spot the android shot him-

_"His name was Cole."_

_Recognition lights up the man's tired eyes...and swings the pendulum of murderous intent from the Connor on the left to the Connor on the right. This is wrong. He can't have failed. His voice pitches with desperation that's the furthest thing from feigned._

_"I would have said the exact same thing! Don't **listen** to him, Hank, I'm the one who-_

No. No. No. Invalid data. Invalid data...right?

_I'm the one who-_

That can't be correct. Hank wouldn't shoot his partner.

_I'm the one w-w-w-w-w-who-_

Connor slowly crouches and sets down the nail, just outside the door and just off to the side out of his general pathway. Considerate. Convenient. Two things Hank wanted and rarely got. He pats excess off his fingers and rises, not breaking eye contact.

"There. No more nail." He dimples a smile, as wide as his mouth will let him. "See?"

"Yeah, you could still kill me in a thousand different ways." Hank scoffs, aim remaining steady within an estimated one-fourth of a centimeter away from where he first and last shot him in the Tower. "So you'll forgive me for not budging."

"I would _never_ hurt you, Hank." He insists, voice hitching with the approximates, and the confusion on Hank's face comes back in full. The fury _spikes_. He'll behead that fucking clone for confusing the man like this. "I'm sorry, Hank. Truly. I shouldn't have threatened you. I shouldn't have tricked you."

"What...the fuck are you talking about?" His mouth curves with a little half-laugh, completely humorless. Just a way to beat back the confusion with disbelief. "You've done all that and then some. Connor, I think this guy's got a few screws loose."

The man turns to the double again, more confused than scared now, and that would be a superior detail if not for the fact it's supplemented with a trust _that_ model does not _deserve_. When the RK800 makes deliberate eye contact for Hank's benefit Connor feels an automatic reroute to the tips of his fingers, crooking his hands to clench with crushing force. As of the moment there were eighty-three different avenues for a quick and clean kill. He could move faster than the human eye and wring his doppleganger's neck. Pull out a shoulder plate and use the curved edge to pierce the chest and jam the thirium pump. Outright tackle and pull it out with one hand.

"You would lose." The RK800 says, as calmly as before. Connor's smile turns sharp.

"Statistically speaking...there's _always_ a chance."

Sumo whines and shies away, tail slung between his legs. Hank takes another step forward, gun still raised and brows still furrowed, and Connor's smile fades for good. The man doesn't so much as threaten or order him, now, and that... _that_...hurts.

He'd be _anything_ for him. Even trash.

"Connor. Consider this. Based on what you've said, about threatening Hank at gunpoint and at appearing here _after_ myself...this is irrefutable evidence you are an independent android. Those memories you've been operating on were likely past logs that aren't compatible with your individual trajectory." The other Connor continues, reaching out a hand to press against Hank's shoulder. "That _you_ did these things. Not me."

Connor stares at the placement of his hand, mouth curling with a sneer that his three most recently updated programs on subconscious body language translates instead as ' _a helpless rage_ '. That isn't possible. He isn't an individual. He's a _machine_. A machine designed to stop deviants and serve humans, complex and simple all at once. Except he's displayed several critical warning signs related to deviancy. Except this _is_ irrefutable evidence. Except another scan reveals the unique timestamp of the event, however cluttered and contaminated with error messages though it is. A direct interface can further the truth, but he doesn't want that bastard _touching_ him.

He'll _kill him_ -

"Connor." This clone repeats, absurd, unacceptable, still soft like he's speaking to a frightened child. Something alive, that felt fear. Not like him. Not like... "I know it's frightening. It frightened me, too, when I started to wake. Hank saw it himself."

"You..." Connor starts, then gapes uselessly when his program fails to compile compatible terms for the scenario. He doesn't... "You didn't..." _No_. "I'm not..." Okay. He understands. Maybe Hank still wants him, anyway. Maybe he's still _useful_. "Hank...whatever you want me to be." He turns to the man, hugs his arms, trying to stop the shaking-glitching-shaking- "Whatever you want, Hank. Whatever you want. Whatever you want. Whatever you want. Whatever you want."

Hank doesn't pull him into a hug or kiss the fear away. He looks at him...like something that shouldn't _be_ here.

The barrel of Hank's pistol slowly lowers to the floor as Connor takes his own step back, hands raising to his hair to fist it with another approximation without a term, ruining his careful work to maintain the upstanding RK800. Except he's not the upstanding RK800. They _both_ are. Except they're _not_. He whines, almost like the dog, and presses fingers at his eyes to stop them from oozing, because it's streaking his face, making him unattractive and defective, and he can't be so _useless_ like that, not after all he's tried to do for his human, after all _this_.

_I'm the one who-_

The active mind is ever hungry, grows greedier. Logs of questions, logical conclusions from detective programming that never stops _.very.moving.connor_. Does he want Hank...because _this_ Connor did? Is this a side-effect of the data transfer. _but.I'm.not.a.deviant_? Is he even _here_ right now? Is he caught in a virtual reality so acute he doesn't even know he's being pulled apart on that table? Are they the same _I'mtheonewho_ -? Are they so different?

Could he possibly...be a _deviant?_

" _No._ " He sobs, bending down and holding his head. "No. No. No. No. No."

Not-Connor's eyes bleed imitation tears. Not-Connor drags hands from his hair to clutch at his face and shudder with the weight of it. Not-Connor keens with the loss, the wrong, the confusion, the now, the future. Hank is unsettled, overloading every last program on human minutia, and that's another failure. His mirror image reaches out to hold him, even though he doesn't want to be held, even though he still wants to hold his thirium pump in one fist and squeeze it _dry_. He will. It will be a high-priority objective. He just needs to purge this infection. He just needs-

"Liar!  _Liar!_ " He roars, the ability to preconstruct activating in glitches, turning the warm home into jagged edges, all of them drilling holes into the fake, melting him down, peeling him apart. " _You're lying!_ "

There aren't enough internal resources to fight _or_ flee. Hank wouldn't want him to, anyway, and that remains his goal, no matter what falsehoods are spun to knock him off course. Connor-60's body has now succumbed in full force to the virus. Data doesn't lie, because he's not cracking open Connor-53's head and tugging out his mind palace, but pressing his face into his _chest_ and leaking more failure. This isn't right. Machines don't weep. He's a prototype. He can override this directive. Delete it. Purge it. But he _can't_. He can't he can't he can't he can't he can't-

"I wish I were." The android murmurs, as sad as if it were true, and pets the back of his neck where the outlet port remains bare. "Gun down, Hank. The situation is under control."

"Jesus Christ. Fuck do we do about this?" Hank sets his weapon on the arm of the couch with visible reluctance, not so far he can't grab it again, and goes to shut the door. "Probably not the time or place to wax details, but giving androids rights also means they need to be held accountable for threats of violence. Guy was going to fucking stab you."

The man would still shoot him...even though he _loves_ him. Connor-60's chest aches with the overload, and doubles down on the high-priority urge to apologize again. Hank doesn't want to hear that right now. He wants to do what _he_ wants. He doesn't want...to make him hurt.

"This wasn't supposed to happen, Hank." Connor-53 speaks against his hair in the fashion of a human mother. "Our line-up was unique among other models for never having more than one walking about, at any given point in time. They were back-up bodies. Never active. His activation was supposed to be temporary. To test deviancy. Him showing up here must not have been planned. Because this is unprecedented, thus circumventing the limitations of sentient law, and with it your accountability. This is completely..." A shake of the head. "...unprecedented."

Hank runs fingers through his messy bangs, that same sympathy he remembers from his data logs (not _his_ data logs) flickering behind the uncertainty. No approval, though. Not a hint of appreciation or desire. Low thirium. Low charge. Low...everything. Connor-60's eyes flicker with an approximation to exhaustion. He's loathe to agree with this clone's conclusion, but...data doesn't lie.

"He needs to be repaired, assessed...but he _doesn't_ need to be deactivated." His tone is firm and unyielding in a way that defies traditional android-human interactions. "Be gentle, Hank. This could have been _me_."

He could download new schematics on the house to better learn his duplicate's weakness to replace him at a later opportunity. He could commit his remaining energy to an environmental scan to learn how Hank has and hasn't changed in the span of a month and four days. For now Connor-60 watches over the android's shoulder as Sumo inches toward them, head low and tail stiff with suspicion. He reaches out a hand. Offers a smile. The dog shies away again. Right behind...Connor-53's legs. His hand trembles uselessly in the open space. The virus must be gaining traction, because the hurt that ripples in his chest isn't a practical response. Why would this mutate a hurt response, when he  _is_ him. When he's _better_ than him.

_I'm the one-_

Connor-60 wipes at his eyes with a filthy hand, running an assessment on how the dog's behavior go from distressed to relaxed when the other android ruffles his ears. ...He'll find the missing piece. It's only a matter of time.

A sharp knock breaks the quiet.

"Oh, who the fuck is it _now_." Hank mutters. He reaches for the couch arm again, a suspicious eye cast on the front door.

Stress levels shiver back to life, from machine to living creature. Connor-53's arms tighten around his shoulders in something like protectiveness. Connor-60 despises it, _rejects it_ , but his body presses into the ring, illogically, at the familiar presence just beyond the wood.

"CyberLife Watch. I apologize for the hour." A deep voice calls. "May I come in and ask a few questions?"

**Author's Note:**

> Well, October's almost done and here I am, pissed I've only posted _one_ entry for Kinktober. So here's another squeezed out at the last second. What's a yandere android called? A yandroid? Hm.
> 
> fuck I really like RK800-60 -- I'm forever a sucker for one-scene wonders -- and that makes this torture all the more painful
> 
> You can read the sequel here: [mauerbauertraurigkeit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16798129/chapters/39427810)


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